


Odd Apple

by Lizlow



Category: Bad Apple Wars (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-03 00:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13329561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizlow/pseuds/Lizlow
Summary: Collection of drabbles/oneshots from my Shikishima RP blog on tumblr; will likely contain headcanons, AUs, and general spoilers for the game Bad Apple Wars





	1. Disease, Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> title is connected to the prompt(s) that had been sent in for this drabble! i really love shikishima...

Without a trace, like mist, like a fading breeze. Those haunting particles, chilling, shining, overtaking the entirety of his livelihood. But he, he has accepted it. To this, which has no end, he will keep painting. And he continues to do so, each stroke come with the shaky rise and fall of his chest. 

This is his mission. 

He, who has felt forgiven by sunflowers, for more bright and open than he, will honor all he sees. This is his way of communication. His right to smile. Neglecting all that might have allowed him to rest, he pours into his work desperation – no…. that is not correct. Why would he be desperate? Shikishima is content. Day and night repeat. Seasons change. And he is destined to return to the soul, withered, without a trace, the smallest flames going into the sky. 

Ah, what a beautiful world he lives in. 

Understanding, this which plagues him doesn’t scare him. So he thinks, anyway. It is but another flip of the coin. Nothing more than another aspect of the graceful toying this state of being must face. How sweet this dance seems to be, his grasp moving again and again and again to try to allow his sight to bloom. 

If he leaves nothing behind, so be it. Will, air, like ashes blowing away in the softest of winds, he will give himself to this cycle, this lovely, dreadfully so, cycle, struggling all the while, in spite of the pain, in sprite of being alone. 

Nothingness, a simple medley of black, white, grey. 

Floating, alone. 

Should he gasp after his coughs, these shooting reminders that soon, soon he will be free. Released. Able to relax, to become one with every aspect of this Earth. The pretty flowers, dead or not. The pretty bugs, crawling, wiggling, searching for their place, which they will find, thrive, and, too, shrink away to the wind, under the light of the sun and the reflection of the moon, disappearing, hardly remembered. 

They accept it. 

Yes, this disease, this incurable, irremovable beat that causes an irregular pace of his heart, wounding his body, but not his soul, his lost… lonely soul. No one understands this disease, except that it will kill. No one understands him, except that he’s ‘strange.’ He can’t help but smile in spite of this, in a case where, perhaps, others would cry. Their sorrow, how gentle, how his artistic eyes take them in. 

It squeezes his lungs, his heart, aching his very soul, but it doesn’t hurt. 

Sticky, scarlet, stunning in its sustaining nature, how it stains his fingers, parts of the canvas, leaving lines on where his holds his brush. It’s scary, sure, but fear does not own him. Will it free him? 

Funny, curious, how delicate he is, a young mind, sending away the days, slowly, slowly, he accepts it. No regrets. No worries. 

No– 

He gasps. Wait, this… there’s more to see. Suddenly he is shaken. Worried. A blunder, nay, such a word is too weak. Graceless, foolish, hold on. Sunflowers, bugs, more days of laughter, tears, all at his fingertips, slipping through, away, distant, lonely. 

More to do… what a fool, a fool with a sun beams so false. 

Is this what freedom is supposed to feel like, taste like? How peculiar… how cruel…

What a gorgeous place, the world is. 

His eyes open and he is snapped back to reality. Her… this girl, a flower, able to blossom into anything, but also a soft rain shower. She is the ground that stills them. Is that what brought this memory back? In a place where dreams are drowned by a distant sky, so cold yet warm, so inviting yet repelling. Memories resurfacing, all _her_  emotions bouncing back. She’s trying, trying to take it in, to fill this “emptiness” she claims is inside her, to “know” him. 

**“** A bloom, reaching out, fingers unfurling, spinning the winding despair with an equally powerful hope. The softest breeze and a raging storm, both the sun and the moon, perhaps… what more can she show me? **”**

He muses, humming through his tone. How would she feel if he moved his scarf around her? Oh, but there’s no chance to do so this time. A shame. Such a pity.

What an interesting girl, with her touch that stirs the world, her eyelashes fluttering as her gaze falls on him. 

She’s strange. 

**“** Good morning, Rinka, **”** he says, smiling at her, “Was I a comfy pillow for you again?” A light laugh. A breath of air, unbarred by weak lungs that are stymied by the dust and the physical bounds of a frail body,  **“** Maybe I should make that tea for you again… If you are to perk up, then you’d need such a pick-me-up, wouldn’t you? **”**

The way her look twists, concern mixing with embarrassment, a pout that almost mismatches her eyes… _**how cute… truly, she’s adorable**_ **…**

Is she giving him freedom? Is she prying his stubborn eyes open to a world beyond even he’s known?

…Is she even giving him a choice?

Determination, another chance, a “kiss” of life, so to speak. He’d not have much time, even if he rose again, but to finish, to _pass_  something on, to not be a foggy cloud, fanned away. 

Life or not, a “disease” dwindle down or not, this is… the freest he has ever felt. Alone… she refuses to let him be so. By his side, now, intertwined. She has seen it, him, and her search within him, within herself, to sow a garden of understanding. He’s accepted that. She’s accepted him, hasn’t she? Still, he must continue to paint. He’ll capture this moment too. Her efforts, this time. Choice. 

Nothing can take that away. 


	2. Dawn, Hands, Devotion

The sky, carrying tension so radiant within its crimson laughter. How pretty it is, but it doesn’t not contain something he longs for… the sun. It doesn’t shine here. Never has. What sorrow lays in such a wake…  


No, but perhaps something else is true: that the sun has descended upon this world of souls, the purest white becoming her backdrop as it taints not even pink. 

Beautiful.

She is the _dawn_ of a new day, a reprieve to the fascinating monotony of the fireworks those Bad Apples toy with. A field of sunflowers, accepting her, allowing her to find herself, her hopes, a full spread. The sunrise, coming up over the horizon, a bed of buds opening, chasing. Her tears are the rain showers that nourish growth. She, she is not empty, a canvas that, while the purest white, is not blank. Lines, thin strokes, carefully put together to make the picture that is _her_. 

His soul… longing… is this devotion? Past his hold on painting. Not… alone.. Right, she’s insisted on not leaving him to be so anymore. 

Her hands are warm, like the beginning of summer. 

**“** A wonderful wind… Rinka, that is how hope bears its wings. Now, when I paint… breathe life into all the spirals of what this world has to offer, I know there’s still yet a sun that’s been so desiring to shine. **”**

Should he let go? Oh, but, he doesn’t want to… what if the sky, the light that glows so bright leaves then… but he doesn’t deserve to try to hold it all for himself. No, he is merely another spirit, through whimsy as he lived, who has been polished, lifted, hands pried from his denying ears, eyes forced open by her mere presence. 

Even if she’s the moon, even if the self-deception he has been living has darkened, twisted, no matter what, the light she provides is guiding. He, who had lived such a lonely life, feels like he’s surrounded… surrounded by faith that somehow, his feelings can get across. 

And that’s it.

He likes being by her side. No matter what a new “day” brings, he will not forget this. She, whose summery hands invite a sweet fragrance, towering hues of gold – silver? – without failure. Firmly, his grips her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, purely curious. How soft they are, how tiny are, to possess such influence, such might, such cozy tenderness. 

Even if it rains, it does not stop the draping of dawn’s curtains. It merely stalls the rays… the beams that make them visible to all. 

No more shriveling. Wisps of aspiration cuff them, thread them to never truly parting. How will they bloom? Truly, it will be magnificent. 

And their souls, those that have been replenish. Born anew… are devoted to one another…

… _forevermore_. 


	3. Time, End, Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEVEAH END; COLORLESS PLACE - Spoilers !!

The breeze is calm. Shades of grey create a mold of oddity, the silver threshold becoming the pillow to their venture. One hand of his rests ever so carefully atop hers. It is not hot, nor is it cold, but a lukewarm, a radiance of the middle ground, the void. **  
**

He is content. 

Is it today, is it yesterday? What occurs so cheerfully on the morrow? Time seems so liquid, but he sits next to the moon, so it no longer matters. The proxy of the sun, leaving the ground never lonely from the rays. It is a reflection, brilliant on its own. The fluidity of what is and isn’t has no true relevance. Here, here he can simply be, in his own world, their own world, where colors are of their own ideal, even if it feels so devoid to others. 

> “ _I belong here._ ”  
> 

And she is beautiful all the still. Hair, shimmering, as if it has become its own illumination. This brightness, 

A place absent of color, but as he scrawls, scribbles, draws the images that swirl through his mind. His feelings, a motion, a blur, her presence the last bit of warmth he needs. Odd Apples, tumbled off the same branch, tied together by fate’s peculiar way of working. Perhaps, had things been different, should such an incantation take the reigns of a different incarnation, then the rainbow would not be a palette so base. 

They are content.

**“** I… believe the same as you, **”** he speaks. His voice needn’t be above a whisper. Nay, she can hear it all the same. It is this room, the halls, the outdoors, all unforgettable. What is here, on these pages scorched in black? What can be scoured amidst the shapes and lines? Is it her? Or something else? What is he so desperate to express, that he just cannot? 

Is there an end? Is there a beginning? For time and time again, their souls live, live until the color leave their minds, until the threads breakdown and the lose who they once were, once could be. That is simply how it must be, for apples as strange as they. 

Destiny, for he, who had hardly any moments left, and she, a directionless orb of white, finally, finally they have a place, a place to be, a place to bloom, bloom their wilted stalks, lose their petals, misshape and mold into a medley only they can be in. 

Is there comprehension? She feels, he sees, but does she know? Know what he’s trying to scream, what words he cannot say, what pictures he cannot show to her? 

Of course she does not, but she has stayed. 

**“** The sun, eclipsed, begs, so that those he cherishes can reach out. It is but one desire, and it is recycled. Do not worry, not a bit of your head, the moon tells him, for you will meet again, all you promise, and you will be treasured, but forgotten. **”**

**“** Painless, that is all he needs to hear. Fleeting. Rising into the world, only to disappear. A perfect storm, all he wishes, to be, and then to fade, to fade to nothingness. Beautiful… **”**

He says this, not breaking from his smile, just as she does not crack hers. He expects not an analysis, an answer. They are beyond the need for that. Grip within darkness, abandoned any will to “live” but discarded the idea of “abiding” they are their own duo. 

Not good nor bad, but offbeat. He has likely say these words before, sometime, sometime ago. A few days? Weeks? How many little, polished, drained apples have they seen. 

> “ _I… do not understand. But I… like it all the same. It… belongs too.”_    
> 

Another one to the pile, more words whose meanings are detached. Correct. They belong. There is no other place, but one where they can roam free, unable to find vibrancy to cling to, but never truly escaping. It is not “empty” but… almost like a sponge… no, a zone, a net that traps it. So long as NEVAEH allows them to exist, to _be_ , then that is how the beings will mingle. 

Eyes, no longer more than pools of shaded memories, distant from left and right, from which and what, from how and when, present, encompassed in crossing of eras that none other can poke through. 

**“** Yes, it is a place to be had, tangled within the web that has been sewn… **”**

**“** I… ‘like’ this sense. **”**


	4. Life, Photograph, Paint

He doesn’t want to stop breathing. Without his brush, he might very well collapse, fade away into nothingness, discard all struggle, and lose who he thinks he might be. Therefore, he must paint.   


Moving with a smile that refuses to drop so easily, coloring strokes of illusion over the truth of his canvas, Shikishima is content. Seal away those final thoughts, continue to layer a masking design; yes, truly, this is how he is destined to live.   


Will anything change that?   


He doesn’t want to stop seeing. This world is cruel, yet so beautiful all the same. Without his eyes, his thoughts, he might not have been able to experience all the beauty that life brings, he might not have been been able to communicate what his vision crosses. Therefore, he _must_ paint.   


Even if the photographs that frame his memories fail to make it to the gazes of others, in a way that they can understand and take in, he perseveres. He cannot stop. He must not stop. There’s still much to be done.   


Will anyone consider him to be a part of the living? 

**“** Please. I must… not stop painting. **”**   


She’s weeping… his mother… how beautiful her tears are, how quickly he’s charged to capture them, even as they drip and strain on his canvas. That’s okay, they add more personality to the strokes around them. _**Mother, I… am happy.**_

_**I will leave, like the breeze, returning… returning to the nothingness I was born into, the nothingness I live in. It’s okay, Mother.** _

“ _Natsuhisa… I don’t understand. I don’t…_ ”   


_**It’s okay. You don’t have to understand. The beauty… in this moment is enough.** _

He is running his fate, ignoring the denials that ring in his head. Life… His life is meant for closed eyes and covered ears. He’s accepted that. He’s alright with that. This is what is captured. The life he lives to keep breathing, the extension he moves to keep moving. 

Does _she_  understand that? With those thin digits wrapping around his scarf, pulling for attention. No, her eyes speak of confusion, but determination. She’s curious, and so lovely. Alighting with the slightest interest, she stubbornly root _s, trying_ to chase who she is, who she can be. A flower, with more a chance than he. An empty shell, that can take in life, and grow. She has a soul, pure white, purely warm. 

He gasps when she yanks at him much harder, a gaze of yellow looking down at her.   


**“** Rin… ka… why..? **”**

_“Sorry..! You looked like you were going to float away…”_   


So honest… that sadness in her grey stare, her reaching, trying to tell him what..? What does she see in this world that he’s been unable to see? Unable to speak? Why is she so persistent in tearing away at his stubbornness, exposing him to the lonely void that he thought he accepted.   


**“** Rinka… how can I float away if I am here? I am not a petal so loose from the withering bloom just yet. I am here, right here. **”**

_ “…Yeah, I feel like a kid… but here you are.”  _

Is she trembling? Her hands still won’t release him. Has she seen something else? What has she glimpsed upon? What snippets of lives has she seen? In her pursuit of freeing herself from monotony, from the feeling of stagnation she has lived but not thrived in… what has she witnessed?   


Why won’t she let go? Why won’t she let him fade into nothingness? She’s… trying to peer into the _life_ he’s existed in, not living, but not dying. She’s… wanting to comprehend it? Not letting go… she’s getting further into those glued shut windows of his, cracking them open.   


He must paint this. He must capture this. He must not stop. If anything, she… she will be remembered. Tight grasp, watching him.   


How will this scene be recalled? When times are different and they are ‘expelled’ and he is nothing but the wind, will she feel his scarf wrapping around her? Will she picture the changes she’s helped him discover in himself?   


As hands moved to curl warmth around her, covering her mouth so no one can see the laughter falling from her lips as she pushes up her partner’s glasses, wonder fills the air. The last of _his_ life had been dedicated to painting, just like he wanted. Just like he told his mother. Just like he told her.   


But it had purpose. More than just becoming a ball of smoke. His livelihood, the message he learned that he wanted to relay. There, in a gallery, the backdrop depicted becoming the picturesque display for Rinka, and the one that’s helping her keep his legacy.   


He has not stopped breathing…

…a camera clicks…

He has faced the cruelties of the world, but the gems as well…   


…gentle love confessions are spread…

He is happy… he is content…   


…a shadow is in the picture, over her, around her, the sun.   


**_Thank you… for the life you let me live, Rinka._ **


	5. Home, Warm, Gaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A BEAUTIFUL WORLD -- GOOD END SPOILERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took liberties with Haruhiko since he's definitely... different than Natsuhisa LOL, despite being his reincarnate... kudos to great-great-uncle Natsuhisa for being an odd ball, but then again, I think Haruhiko's one too, in his own way

Cherishing. Ever since she confirmed herself to his side, ever since their souls  _touched_ , he has adored her, her support, her willingness to stay by his side. Truly, he feels like this is what he had been born to come to: the painting.  _Her_. He is at home, safe within the warm, inviting rays of the sun, sworn to carry on a legacy that deserves to be held dear.

_He_  is not  _Natsuhisa_ Shikishima. No, he cannot be his great-great uncle, whose final painting brought  _her_  to tears. It’s easy to appreciate his memory, but he also can’t help but feel a little jealous of how fondly she seems to speak of him, as if she actually knew him, as if she had feelings for him. Silly, isn’t it? Yet, perhaps… more valid than he can truly comprehend.

Life is quite odd, in this way, strangely stringing them along, playing with the breeze, taking them where they need to be.

_He_  is  _Haruhiko_  Shikishima, a young man whose path was figured out by the discovery of that painting on that fateful day. He, a newborn carrier of a legacy that had almost been lost in time, fell in love with her, a pure soul who seemed to have renewed confidence in herself, at first sight. 

His eyes refuse to leave her.   


The soft warm brush against his hand sends his heart fluttering, and he’s more than certain that he’d like to do more for her. A handkerchief alone isn’t enough. No, he feels as though the world will allow this prince to escort this young lady further. The lines on this painting draw their fate, a sunflower, so vibrant, just like the sun.   


The sun on breezy spring day, radiating gently on the flowers that are budding, reaching.   


Really, he wants her to feel right at home alongside him. He wants to hold onto these memories they create, and with a click, he’s able to hold onto them. Nothing beats the moment itself, however. How nice it is, to really live in it, to breathe it, to commit it to memory. Present, past, and future, now, Haruhiko thinks, he’s so fortunate to inhabit these spaces of time with her. 

_“Take care today.”_   


**“** Yes, same to you. **”**   


The one he was born to meet, the one he was drawn to without knowing why. 

_“I’m home..!”_   


**“** Welcome home, Rinka. **”**   


Life is so warm, so comforting, when he thinks of how much  _they’ve_  accomplished, together, how far they’ve come, from being strangers.   


Allow the prince to escort the fair maiden who discovered the princess’s soul that rested inside her, because it was her all along. She, pure, kind, gentle, tried her best to understand, made the effort to look at the odds and ends of those stranger than she had ever experienced, and allowed herself to get close to them.   


Birds are chirping, spring truly is in full bloom. He smiles, seeing her so genuinely focused on such a simple task. She’s adorable,  _beautiful_. He wants to share the seasons changing with her, every time, every year. So he cuts the food he’s set to handle with careful cuts.   


Creating an image with them is not quite so easy, but in order to really hone in on the moment, he feels as though completing it with this would rather suit it.  **“** Like a flower, she is finally able to bloom after sowing her seed… **”**    


Rinka stops moving, looking at him with wide, curious eyes. It almost seems that  _his_  name is on the tip of her tongue, in question. He supposes he has to remind her that  _he’s_  here, that this is their place, their thread, their fate.   


He sighs and smiles at her, setting the knife down and quickly placing a kiss on her cheek, **“** she, fair, allows her petals to open up to the youthful sun, **”**  he presents the fruit he had been cutting. It’s a bit messy, but it surely does resemble a flower. Thank goodness for practice. **“** sharing beams within the meadow she’s come to call her home, the warmth promises to never leave her alone. Every flower is precious, but to him, she is the much more. She allowed his light to prosper, gifted purpose to his breathes, as if the pair was meant to be. **”**    


The sunset, pouring in the sleepy light through the window, giving a glow to Haruhiko, to Rinka.   


**“** The sun gets to go to sleep watching the flower’s efforts, with a soft ‘ _good night_ ,’ and is so graciously allowed to awaken to her words, ‘ _good morning_.’ How grateful he is… To be able to hold his adored, meet her gaze, and be warmed by her lovely return. **”**


End file.
